


A home far away

by FuriousPoplar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Future Fic, Gen, POV Second Person, Reader as unimportant child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuriousPoplar/pseuds/FuriousPoplar
Summary: There’s a small house on the mountain at the far side of your town, built on the edge of where the grass fields stop and the forest begins. Nobody knows who calls it home.





	

                There’s a small house on the mountain at the far side of your town, built on the edge of where the grass fields stop and the forest begins.

It’s a nice house, many say. It doesn’t look like it could ever be home to more than a single person, and despite its seemingly ornate design, the general consensus amongst everyone you know is that the most suitable term for its appearance would be ‘cute’. ‘Quaint’, however, is also very popular. Its most striking feature is its garden, which spans an order of magnitude more area than the house itself. It’s a beautiful, blooming display of a hundred different colors of flower, and you can’t live a day without hearing at least _someone_ comment about how brilliant it looks from town. You often hear people dream aloud of how it must look up close.

You always wondered why nobody ever hiked up there to find out before you started hearing the rumors.

Nobody knows who lives in that cute, quaint little house. Nobody can seem to remember when it was built or by who. Naturally, the place has an allure of mystique to it. It and its unknown occupant are a frequent topic of conversation amongst all the kids your age.

_“I bet it’s a monster!”_

_“…So?”_

_“So— oh. I mean, uh, a… beast? Not one of you guys. A scary monster!”_

_“Why would a ‘beast’ live in a tiny little cottage with flowers everywhere?”_

_“Iunno. Why would anyone live so far away? Wouldn’t they get lonely?”_

_“Maybe they’re just really grumpy and hate people.”_

_“That’s pretty lame, though. It’d be cooler if it was a murderer or something.”_

_“That’d be horrible!”_

_“Maybe a little bit. Just don’t go up there, and you’ll be fine.”_

It didn’t take long for the more creative kids in town to brew up bone-chilling, blood soaked and pulverulent legends of a slavering beast, or a maniacal killer, or even one about a sentient mountain goat that grew tired of its friends and taught itself to walk upright and build houses (you don’t know who came up with that one, but wow, props to their imagination).

_“Stay far away from that house_ ,” they always whisper like they’re afraid someone will hear, _“Something horrible lives there.”_ You, personally, think that whoever does live up there would probably be mortified to know that everyone assumes they’re an axe murderer. It’s probably just some wrinkly old codger who loves gardening and hates nosy townsfolk.  Probably.

You sure hope so, because you’re climbing up to meet them right now.

People get dared to go knock on the door or even just set foot on the mountain, every now and then. You don’t know anyone who’s actually done it, yourself, but you hear stories all the time.

_“A cousin of mine walked up there once, he turned around when he heard this terrible howling coming from out back.”_

_“My brother’s friend said she saw who lived there once. Just its silhouette through the window, but it had big, pointy horns, and was at least twelve feet tall, and had massive razor-sharp claws. She said she ran away because it saw her, and its eyes were glowing red!”_

_“Don’t tell anyone… but my grandma said she once saw some big thing in a baggy coat carrying a human body up that hill! Nobody ever saw it again…”_

Silly, made-up stories. So when one of your sort-of friends dared you to go knock on the door, and managed to get the rest of your better friends chanting along with them, you fearlessly rose up to the challenge. Some begged you not to go. Others said you’d never do it. All of them admired your gusto. No matter what, you’re going to look really stupid if you get eaten.

 

 

It’s a terribly long way up. You wonder if the reason nobody’s ever seen this person is because it’s just too darn far from the town. You sure wouldn’t want to make this walk every time you needed groceries.

When you reach the garden’s border, you stop for a moment to take in the view. They were right; it _does_ look even better up close. The array of colors and the wonderful, spring-like fragrance hanging thick and sweet in the air is a delight to take in, and you think that as long as you make it back down alive, you’ll be glad you came up here to see it all for yourself.

You also think that anyone who could find the love and passion to maintain something like _this_ probably wouldn’t murder a curious child. Right?

The house, too, is more beautiful up close. It’s made mostly out of a light-tan oak wood, with stone pillars supporting it. There are countless of engravings in the stone. Some of them you recognize from your school lessons; you spot the Delta Rune, a few times. Others, you aren’t so sure about.

Then there’s the door. It’s a simple hardwood rectangle, granted, but it’s a lot bigger than the kind you’d expect to see on a house like this. You’re not great with measurements, but you’d guess it to be about eight feet tall. You never knew a slab of wood could terrify you before, but here you are. You’re glad that nobody else dared to venture up alongside you, or they’d be laughing their butt off at how bad you’re shaking.

_They’re all just stories they’re all just stories they’re all just stories,_ you chant silently in a mantra of paper-thin confidence.

Caught feeling somewhere between indomitably brave and hopelessly stupid, you raise your hand and knock. You then, immediately thereafter, spin ninety degrees on your heels and dive ungracefully into the nearest hedge.

 

…Nothing happens.

You scowl, it now occurring to you that it’s entirely possible that it’s a mystery who lives here because _nobody does_. But then, before you can climb out of your uncomfortable hiding spot, you hear the door creak slowly open.

“…Hello?” a voice tries softly from inside. You can’t see him from your angle, but you can guess a few things from the sound of his voice. He sounds grown up, but not _old_. Middle-aged. His voice is deep, but not gravelly or menacing, so he’s probably not all that bad. He’s probably—

“Nothing again. I’m getting real goddamn sick of these kids,” he spits before slamming the door shut again.

Okay, so maybe he’s not so friendly. Or maybe you just put him in a bad mood. Still, your curiosity is at an all-time high. Now that you know that he’s, at the very least, just a regular monster (or maybe a human? You can’t tell from his voice alone), you want to know why he’s up here all by himself. He must get lonely, sometimes. All the time, even.

You sit in the hedge for a few minutes more, twigs digging into your sides, your mind racing with possibilities. It takes you quite some time to remember that you can’t wait too long or everyone will start thinking you died, and then someone will probably call your parents and then you’ll be in trouble for running off.

You’re about to leave when you hear his voice again, echoing faintly from somewhere out back. You creep around the side of the house until you reach a tall wooden fence. You don’t chance climbing over it, but don’t need to, as you can hear him clearly again. You can’t see his back yard; rosebushes line the fence on the inside, choking out your peripherals, and you can catch only the tiniest glimpse of him through a miniscule gap in the boards. He’s kneeling down in front of something.

He’s a monster, unquestionably. You can sort of see where some of the rumors came from; he’s freaking huge, for starters. He does have big, pointy horns. You even see some merit to the goat story when you notice his snout. But he doesn’t look like a ‘beast’. His fur is a creamy off-white, his eyes a dull, coppery red, and his green and yellow striped sweater even looks hand-knit. Overall, he doesn’t seem like much of a killer.

 

“Hey,” he starts, voice low. He says something else, maybe a name, but you don’t catch it. “It’s that time, again. It’s… a wonderful day out, today. You’d really like it. It reminds me of those days when Frisk and I used to drag you out to the beach, and you’d whine and snipe the whole way there; ‘I don’t _want_ to go. I’d be happier staying here’, that kind of stuff. But then we’d arrive and start building sandcastles or going out swimming, and Frisk would go buy a nice-cream cone just to smoosh it into the side of your head and you’d start having fun before you remembered that you were supposed to be mad.” He stops and laughs. “An- And then, when we had to leave so we’d be back in time for dinner, you’d always be falling asleep and we’d have to drag your lazy ass back home, and Mom would scold you for not eating your dinner, but you’d just be passed out and slouched over in your chair drooling all over yourself like an idiot. It’s one of those kinds of days, you know?”

Nobody answers him. Whoever he’s talking to must be the quiet type. He continues anyway, unsurprised by the silence. “I don’t have anything for you today, I’m sorry. I’ll need to go back into town next week, get some grocery stopping done. I’ll pick you up some chocolate while I’m there, okay? Your favorite brand and everything, I promise.”

He chuckles softly, in way that makes you think there isn’t much to laugh about.

“I can practically feel the glare you’d be giving me, right now. I should probably do it today, right? But I don’t really feel like walking anywhere. I’d rather just stay here. Ha. Sort of ironic, huh? Because of the beach and all? You used to be the one to want to stay home and let days like these go to waste. Now it’s me.”

He closes his eyes and says nothing more. You stick around for a few more minutes, curious to see if he’ll start again, but he doesn’t. Silently, you creep away and start the walk back down the mountain.

 

 

 

You tell everyone that you knocked, but nothing happened. That’s half-true, right? You did knock. And nothing happened, for second there. You don’t tell anyone about how you overheard him speaking to… someone. That’ll just spark more silly rumors, for starters, and you get the sense that this guy doesn’t need more of those surrounding him. Besides, his life isn’t even any of _your_ business, let alone the whole town’s.

Some don’t believe you really did it; you tell them to go check themselves, if they’re so sure, and they shut up. Others say you’re super brave, and that makes you feel pretty good about yourself. But more than anything else, you’re still curious.

The next day, at the same time as yesterday, you tell your parents that you’re going out for a walk (not a lie at all, this time— you just didn’t say _where_ ) and you climb back up the mountain.

 

 

You don’t knock this time. It’s bad enough that you’re going to be eavesdropping; you don’t need to keep annoying him. And you’re still too nervous to meet him anyways, so eavesdropping it is. You sneak around to the fence and sit with your back against it, head craned to try and see through the gap in the boards and the rosebush. You see the same thing as you did yesterday. The man is back, kneeling down again. He’s wearing a different sweater this time, blue and purple striped. Still hand-knit. He looks a little silly, wearing stripes. Those are usually for kids, aren’t they?

“You know,” he begins with a hairline crack of a smile, “We really need to stop meeting like this. People are going to talk.”

You freeze up for a moment, but calm down when he keeps going.

“Heh. I think that’s one of the only dumb jokes I know that never gets old. Though, you’d accept anything that qualified as a pun, no matter how awful it was. I envied that, sometimes. That something so simple and effortless could make you so happy. More than that, I think, I just wished that I could stomach coming up with them myself. Even if I hated them, it’d have been worth it to make you laugh.” He gives a soft chuckle, fondly reminiscent. “God, you and Mom could go back and forth for _hours_. Even longer if Sans or Frisk was involved. Used to drive everyone else up the walls. Oh, the suffering you four must have brought Papyrus…”

You run the names a few more times through your head, not wanting to forget them. They may be important to figuring out why he’s here all alone. You don’t understand; it sounds like he had a good number of friends.

“Ha, I remember that one time, that you, Mom and Sans had all set each other up for a perfect loop, and— I can’t remember what it was, but you’d just go around and around in a circle, making one bad joke that fed into the other, and then back around to the _same_ jokes, over and over again. And, And I remember Papyrus running up to me, bawling his eyes out and screaming, ‘Your highness! They’re broken, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened but— but— I don’t know if we can fix them!’ and it wasn’t until he clamped onto Sans’ arm and started shaking him and begging for his brother back that you all decided enough was enough.”

His smile sinks away into a thin, unreadable line.

“…I don’t think I ever laughed at one of your puns, not even once. If I did, I don’t remember it. Looking back on it now, it’s one more thing I regret. I think it’d have meant a lot to you, to have been able to share that with me. I know you had Frisk and Mom and Sans for that, yeah, but still.”

He chuckles again, this time caught between warm and humorless.

“I know, I know. ‘You’re too sentimental. You’re such a crybaby. You aren’t my only friend. You don’t have to do everything. Some things I can do with other people.’ Those are some speeches I’ll never forget, let me tell you. I _can’t_ forget, not after how many times you drilled them into me. But we both know I wasn’t ever really listening. I always felt like you were my responsibility. Still do, as much as I can…” he trails off, and the slight crack in his voice doesn’t go over your head. You get an ugly sinking feeling in your gut.

“I always complained about your bad jokes. Always told you to cut it out, that’s not funny. You knew I was kidding with you, that I didn’t really want you to stop, but… I should have laughed, even just once. Just to have let you known. Despite what you’d probably guess… I miss them. I miss your stupid puns, so, so much. I’d give anything to hear one again. And— I probably still wouldn’t laugh, I’d groan, and I’d tell you it was horrible, but…”

He chokes, and you can see clear as the sky above you the way his hands clench into fists, and the way he tries, in vain, to blink the tears out of his eyes.

“I miss you so much,” he whispers, so quiet that you barely hear. He reaches out to touch something, and you shift over to try and get a better look, even though you know what it is.

You catch a glimpse of a smooth, stone surface. You can see letters etched onto it. Not all of them, but the first few are clearly readable through the wreath-like frame of the rosebush.

_“C H A R A”._

 

 

 

You go back again the next day, despite how guilty you feel. You shouldn’t be listening in on a man speaking to a grave, that’s wrong. That’s a private thing that should stay between him and the person he’s lost. And yet…

You can’t help but wonder. You want to know who Chara was. You want to know who Frisk and ‘Mom’ and Sans and Papyrus all are. He doesn’t look that old; you wonder where his other friends got off to. And you’d never say it out loud, but you kind of want to know what happened to Chara.

So you go back. And again, the day after that. And the day after that. And again and again until it’s been an entire week, and now it’s sort of a habit of yours to listen in on this stranger’s talks.

You learn a lot about Chara. You learn that they loved to read, and that the man kept every one of their old books, and that some of them are still too tricky for him to finish, try as he may. You learn that they were a terrible cook and a worse baker, but had an insatiable sweet-tooth. You learn that they loved to knit, and that makes the homely sweaters he wears every day a whole lot sadder.

Most of all, you learn that Chara meant the world to him. He never says what they were— he never calls them brother or sister or husband or wife. He only ever calls them by name, if he even does that. He always has trouble saying it, like the sound doesn’t fit in his mouth. But it’s painfully obvious how much he must have cared about them.

He has a routine, almost. You always show up at the same time, and he’s always kneeling in the back yard, in front of their grave. He’s never late, and it’s only when you make absolute haste up the mountain trail that you even hear him start. He always says hello, in one form or another. And he’s always reminiscing about something, and always something nice. Binge-watching movies. A day in a bookstore. A hug given when he needed it most. The time they did this or the time he said that. You wonder if his life was picturesque, bright and happy and perfect before they died, and if anything bad ever happened to him at all. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk about the bad. Never speak ill of the dead, right?

Aside from Chara, you learn bits and pieces about his other friends, and his parents.

His mother’s name was Toriel. She baked the best pies in the whole world, adored terrible jokes, and was one of the most loving people to have ever lived. She taught Chara to knit, as well as countless other things; he talks, a lot, of her ‘lessons’, as in school lessons. She also had a stern streak a mile wide, and if looks could kill, she would hold a legendary body count.

He never says his Father’s name. He always calls him, ‘Mister Dad-Guy’ with a nostalgic little snicker. It’s an in-joke you’ll never understand. He taught him everything he knows about gardening, made the best tea, and was king of monsterkind for quite some time. You think you can guess his name— Asgore. You’ve heard about him a few times, when your history class moves to more modern events instead of that boring ancient crap. You’ve never heard about his son, though. The man doesn’t strike you as a king.

Frisk was someone that he and Chara loved to pieces. They were kind and forgiving, full of care and compassion. They always made Chara happy, and if Chara was happy, he was too. They also were an ambassador, and you’re pretty sure you’ve heard about them once or twice as well.

Sans was a skeleton, short and lazy. He told the worst jokes, and made questionable hot-dogs. He smelled bad, and could be really creepy, and you’re pretty sure that the man isn’t terribly fond of Sans, but he speaks of him as though he were a friend.

Papyrus was Sans’ brother. The man always speaks highly of him. Papyrus made amazing spaghetti, although not at first. He was cheerful, and optimistic, and always knew how to make people feel better. He was always a bit too energetic for Chara, but nobody could bring themselves to dislike him.

Undyne was brave, and better friends with Chara than she was with him. She was angry, and violent, and great on the piano, and apparently those traits made the two get along perfectly.

Alphys was Undyne’s wife. She was a complete nerd, and got in arguments with Chara a lot. Chara maybe didn’t like her so much, you’d assume from all the talks of hours-long fights over something called ‘anime’, but he always speaks as though they had been close.

There are so many people he brings up, it’s all hard to keep track of. But he and Chara had so many friends, and you can’t understand why he’d be so lonely. His parents, maybe, are no longer with him, but shouldn’t everyone else be?

The more you think about it, the more you wonder what happened. And the more you wonder, the more you aren’t sure if you even want to know.

 

 

 

Soon, you grow tired of guessing. You wait for a Saturday, and leave a full four hours earlier than you normally would. You wouldn’t dare risk interrupting him.

You don’t know what to expect. The man had loved many people, yes, but is he so friendly, anymore? What if he’d become angry, or reclusive over the years? What if he screams and shouts and chases you away? What if he kills you?

…Well, okay, he definitely won’t kill you, but he may not want visitors. And he certainly won’t be thrilled to know you’ve been spying on him. But you’ve become hopelessly caught up in the life of a stranger, even just looking in through a gap in a rosebush. You have to know. Maybe he won’t tell you, maybe you’ll be sent away, but you’re too determined to not at least try.

You’re glad that it’s a nice day out, again. The weather’s been really good, as of late. You wonder what he does when it’s raining, or cold; does he still go out and talk to Chara, no matter what? You remember hearing stories of soldiers tasked with guarding the tombs of their fallen comrades, and how they would stand post no matter the weather, to honor those buried there. You can’t help but imagine the man standing tall and solemn with a bayoneted rifle slung over his shoulder, gazing a thousand miles off into space, protecting Chara’s resting place with his life. You wonder if you should really be doing this.

But you came all the way up here, and it’d be a waste to turn back now. You raise your hand and knock once more, and this time, you hold your ground.

Nothing, for a moment. Longer than last time. You worry that he may have resolved to simply stop answering the door. But, just as you’re about to give up, the knob turns, and the door creaks open. His tired face lights up with surprise when he sees you. He’s tall, much taller than he appears when kneeling. You see now why his door is so large; taking his horns into account, he stands at seven feet.

 He takes a short breath and says, “Howdy,” with a thick catch of shock in his tone. You wonder when the last time he had a visitor was.

“Hi,” you offer in return.

You stare at him and he stares back for a lingering moment, neither of you knowing how to proceed from here.

“Um,” he tries, shifting his gaze from you to the long path back to town. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please,” you reply, trying to remember everything your mom ever taught you about good manners. “Thank you.”

He looks down at the floor and blinks before stepping back into the house and holding the door open. He weakly gestures for you to come in, and you comply.

 

He starts walking ahead of you, and you assume that means to follow. He leads you into an un-extraordinary kitchen with a sliding glass door out to the back yard, covered by a thin, wavy curtain that doesn’t quite allow you to see through it.

“Please,” he says, gesturing to a lonesome, untouched wooden chair tucked under the table, “Sit. I’ll start the kettle.”

You watch, with interest, as he goes about the process. You catch a glimpse of the box of tea he’s making before he pulls two bags out— ‘Golden Flower’ tea. There are several more boxes just like it in the cupboard. He must really like that kind.

You notice how he doesn’t plug the kettle in anywhere, or places it on the seemingly unused stove; instead, he plants one paw on its side and closes his eyes, concentrating. _Fire magic,_ you realize.

A minute passes, and he seats himself across from you in a chair identical to yours, only much worse for wear. He sets the two cups down, and looks into his own, getting lost in its murky depths

“It’s a long walk up here from town,” he finally begins, “were you dared to come here?”

You hesitate before answering. “Yes— um, no— I was, but that’s not why I’m here today.”

“Oh,” he replies flatly.

You take sip of the tea. It’s wonderful. “This is really good,” you tell him.

He smiles. “I’m glad you like it.”

You wait a second for him to ask why you came, if not because of a dare, but he says nothing. This is on you, looks like.

“I was… I was here about a week ago,” you admit, mimicking him and looking down at your cup.

“Oh,” he says again, just as flat as before.

“I was the one who knocked and then ran away.”

“I see. Were you afraid?” he asks, lifting his head up to look at you.

“Y-Yeah. There’s lots of rumors about this place.”

He chuckles. You recognize it as one of his fonder chuckles, and feel a pang of guilt that you can read him like this at all. “None of them good, I’m sure.”

You shake your head.

“I understand. This mountain has a thing for legends, it seems. There’s always _something_ bringing people here. But,” he says with a hard edge of intrigue. “If it’s not the rumors that brought you here, what was it?”

Your face screws up. Time for the hard part. “I wanted to say sorry…” you say, not finding the momentum to add a, _for starters._

“I forgive you,” he doesn’t hesitate to say.

“Not just for running. I also… um… I didn’t actually run, you see,” you confess, feeling the way you do when you have to explain yourself to your parents when you do something bad. Probably because you _did_ do something bad. “What I did was, I hid in one of your hedges, and then I snuck around out back to your fence, and I… I listened in on your, uh, conversation.”

He stiffens. You’re not done yet.

“And, then I came back the next day, and… every other day up until now, and did the same thing. I’m really sorry.” You let out what little breath is left in you and meet his stare.

There’s a flicker of an old, terrible anger simmering behind his eyes like dying embers flaring up in a gust of wind, and you freeze.

But, it dies away soon after. He sighs a weary sigh, and the weight behind it almost knocks you over. “I see,” he says quietly. “And why did you do that?”

You find the nerve to shrug. “I was curious. I wanted to know why you were out here, at first, and then who you were talking to, but then I realized that they…” you trail off.

“You realized they were dead,” he finishes for you, blankly.

“Uh-huh. So… I wanted to talk to you. To say sorry, and, um… just to talk, I guess. You seemed really lonely.”

He blinks a few times, very slowly. Eventually, he gives you a faint but warm smile. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he says, hushed but not unfriendly. “It has been a long time since I’ve had a visitor.”

You take another sip of your tea. It’s a bit colder, now, but still good. “Their…” you start and stop. You take a deep breath. “Their name was Chara, right?”

He winces when you say their name. “Yeah,” he half-whispers.

“If you don’t mind me asking, who were they?”

“They were my sibling,” he says, grimacing soon after. “No. No, that’s not really true. They were a lot more than that. Chara…” he pauses and finally takes a lengthy sip of his tea.

“Chara was my other half. I met them when I was barely even a boy. We grew up together, and then lived together, and I could count on one hand the times we left each other’s side. I’ve had many friends, some of them very, very dear to me, but… I never loved anyone the same way I loved them.”

“I’m… sorry you lost them,” you say, but you understand that ‘sorry’ is hopelessly inadequate.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I haven’t really been the same since.”

You both go back to staring at your tea. You hear seconds tick past on a clock, somewhere in the house. It feels more like years.

“What…” you start, “What about all your other friends? Don’t you ever see them, anymore?”

He doesn’t answer. His head is still bowed, but he isn’t looking at his tea, anymore. “What time is it?” he asks instead.

“It was about ten when I left. It usually takes me thirty minutes or so to get up here.”

He nods. “It’s time, then. You’re free to join me, if you want.”

“Oh,” you mutter under your breath. You hadn’t really expected that. You can tell ‘that time’ is a very personal thing for him. You never thought he’d allow you to tag along. “…Okay,” you tell him, hesitating at first. It feels sacrilegious, almost, to agree, but you’d feel as if you were insulting him if you had said no.

He stands, slowly, and walks over to the glass door. He pulls it and the curtain open together, as though they were a single piece.

 

You follow him outside, blinking bright summer sunlight out of your eyes. Everything’s all green tinted and bloomy, and you can’t see a thing. It takes what feels like ages for your eyes to adjust.

When they do, you finally get a proper view of his back yard. Lining the fence are well-trimmed rosebushes, like the one you had been looking through. There’s a cobblestone walkway snaking through the yard, although it looks more like the garden out frond; tall, vibrant flowers of all sorts stand tall and proud, grouped together in neat little pockets. Somehow, it looks even more beautiful that the massive field the town knows and admires.

Then you notice what’s standing between the sets of flowers. They’re all lined up in neat, orderly rows, bordering the walkway. Some look older than others, but every one of the pale stone slabs have been here for a long, long time.

You’re standing in a graveyard.

 

“Oh,” the noise spills weakly out of you. “Who… w-who were they?” You catch a glimpse of an ancient, tired smile from your peripherals.

“My family,” he says with a gentle longing as though he were talking of an old photograph or heirloom.

He starts slowly and silently down the path before you can say anything else. You follow, unsure of what else there is to do.

 

He stops in front of every single one, some longer than others. Always at least a minute. At each one, he looks like he wants to say something, but never does. You think that he’d have knelt down and spoken to them all had you not been present. You can’t help but feel guilty for intruding, even if he’s allowing it.

The graves all share similar features. They all have an upside-down heart etched above the name— you recognize it as a monster soul. Each one has a different color of flower growing next to it, and although you can’t name most of them, you’re certain they were all picked deliberately. You recognize a lot of the names. Toriel. Asgore. Alphys. Undyne. Papyrus. Sans. There are others you don’t know, or only heard once or twice in passing. All monsters.

 

It feels as though you’ve spent an eternity wandering through his garden when you finally reach the end at the far left corner of the yard. The last few graves are marked with the image of a human soul.

He stops in front of the first, but you can’t see the name from where you’re standing; orange marigolds stand in the way. It’s the newest looking of them all. You wonder who they were.

He stops in front of the second. Dark purple tulips crowd densely around the base. _“F R I S K  D R E E M U R R”_ is inscribed across the top. It’s a very long time before he moves again.

You recognize the last one. You glance to the right, and you can even see the tiny gap in the fence that you had been peering through. _“C H A R A  D R E E M U R R”_ is written below another carving of a human soul. Golden flowers stand tall and proud in the grass around it, waving gently in the breeze.

He takes a deep breath. “This is Chara,” he tells you. “I spend a lot of time talking to them. More than the others, usually. I feel guilty for it, sometimes, but I think they would understand. You already know how much they meant to me. They all knew, too.”

You slowly nod. “I…” you start, and your voice cracks from disuse. “I know that you probably don’t want to talk about it… but… what happened to them?”

He smiles. It’s a pained, unhappy smile. “They grew old. There were times when they struggled. When they made mistakes. When they were miserable, or lost. There were even times when… they wanted to die. But they lived a full, happy life, and they had a lot of friends who all loved them very much.”

“But…” you start, confused. “I thought you knew them since you were little? How come you aren’t old, too?”

His smile widens. It still doesn’t look happy. “Monsters like me don’t age unless they have biological children. And, well, guess what I never had.”

Oh.

“I think I might be the oldest person still alive. When I was born, monsterkind was still trapped under this very mountain. You know, it’s sort of funny… I remember how excited everyone was, when the barrier was broken. How badly they all wanted to leave the underground. They things they were all willing to do to see the surface. But here they are, right back inside.”

You don’t think it’s funny, but he laughs anyways.

“It felt… right, in some way, to scatter my parents here, back when they died. After them, I just wanted everyone close by. And, eventually… I was the only one left. So I moved out of my and Chara’s old place, back in the town, and built the new house here.”

“Why do you stay?” you ask him. He turns and stares at you, expression unreadable.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks in return, and you aren’t sure why.

“Okay.”

He nods, solemnly, and kneels down to the ground. Even like that, he’s taller than you. “Before Chara died, they made me promise them something. They made me promise that, after they and the others were gone, that I wouldn’t just… give up. That I’d try to move on, and be happy. That I’d try to build a new life with someone else. I didn’t dare tell them no.”

“Did it work?” you ask, words barely louder than a whisper. “… _Are_ you happy?”

He shivers. You notice, now, the damp streaks running down his face. You aren’t sure how long they’ve been there.

“I-I’m… I’m trying v-very hard,” he chokes. His eyes close, and he bows his head to his chest.

He says nothing more. You don’t think he can.

 

“Mister…” you begin, slowly and carefully. “Um… everyone in town really loves your garden. They’re always talking about how pretty it looks. I just… I thought you should know that. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you.”

He remains silent.

“I’ll… I’ll leave you alone, now. Thank you for the tea.”

You turn around and tread so, so carefully, not daring to disturb anything. Slowly, you make your way back through the house, out the big door, and back down the mountain.

 

 

 

You never go back, and you never see the man again. But, you notice, as years go by, that you don’t hear any more rumors of slavering beasts or crazed killers. No more children are dared to climb the mountain, and there are no more hushed whispers about a hidden danger looming over the town. Instead, you hear more of a kindly monster who’s much older than he looks, and tends to a breathtaking, peaceful garden, grown in the soil of a hallowed, sacred ground.


End file.
